


Perspectives~Chapter Five~Part One: Drop the Bombshell

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Five~Part One: Drop the Bombshell

**  
' **Drop the Bombshell** '   
**

  
_Now I'm not the same because you're not the same - And you're not the same because I'm not the same - And we're not the same this could never be the same - And we just want to survive_ **- Powerman 5000**  


_"Tell me a story."_

"Sammy -"

"Please...please, please, please _? I finished my s'getti-os - and my milk. You_ promised _!"_

"You sure you don't want this Hershey's bar, instead? It's the last one..." In a wheedling tone.

"No - I like Nestle's -"

"Freak."

"M'not! Please, Dean?"

A sigh, some minor rustling around in the dark, a creak of bed-springs as Dean settled his warm weight beside Sammy's, covers tucked around the smaller boy's frame automatically.

"You are _a freak. But okay, okay - don't start whining again. Gotta tell a story, right? What kinda story you want?"_

"A scary story."

"C'mon _, Sammy!"_

"Deeeeaaaann -"

"Alright, alright - but no complaining, 'kay? I know you've heard this one before, like a million times, but I'm too tired to come up with anything else -"

"Is it Superman?"

"No, it's not Superman _, dork-face, but you'll know it - now shut up or I'm gonna go to sleep and you can have a story tomorrow -"_

"Okay, okay - I'm quiet, see?"

Some more shifting, the solid, heavy warmth of a small child leaning against his chest, ear pressed just so against his heart, as if to hear all of him better.

"Once upon a time -"

"That's lame."

"What?"

"Once upon a time - it's lame!"

"No, it's not - d'ya want the story or not?"

"Yeah -"

"Then lemme tell it, Sammy - geez!"

"Okay -"

"Alright _then - once upon a time -"_

"Still lame." But under his breath, easily ignored.

" - there was a beautiful lady -"

"How beautiful? What did she look like?"

"She had long, golden hair, green eyes like me and rosy cheeks - like you."

"I'll bet she was really pretty."

"She was, Sammy. Anyway - she lived in a big house with a scary tree out front and a big yard for playing in."

"Sounds awesome, Dean."

He grinned in the dark and snuggled the little warm body closer, circling his arms around the little boy shoulders, comforted and safe with the little boy head laid against his chest, soft hair tickling his chin as he spoke.

"It was, Sammy. Anyway, in this awesome house, with the scary tree and big backyard, there were two little boys -"

"What were their names?"

"Their names were Sammy and Dean and the beautiful lady loved them very much - as much as she loved her husband - a big smiling man with dark hair and a big laugh."

"He sounds nice, Dean."

"He was..." Softly. "They all lived very happily in this big house and they ate cookies every day and played outside in the big yard until it was dark -"

"I like cookies."

"I know you do, Sammy. Want some chocolate?"

"Only if you have some."

Five sticky, chocolaty minutes later, bellies contented and minds sleepy and bodies warm, the story continued.

"They played every day in the backyard til it was dark. And they drank things like sweet iced tea and had barbecue and played games like softball and tag - the pretty lady, the dark haired man and their Sammy and Dean. They were happy and safe and laughed lots together, in their big house with the scary tree and awesome backyard. But one day, when the pretty lady was sleeping a big scary monster came to the house and saw how happy and safe and content they all were and he was mad at the pretty lady. So he started a fire in their awesome house -"

"Oh no!"

"The pretty lady caught the monster though and tried to fight 'im, but he was a big, bad scary monster and try as she might, she couldn't win. Her husband, with the dark hair and big laugh and strong arms was a hero, but the monster still almost got him _. He didn't defeat the monster, but he vowed to do so one day because he wasn't able to save his pretty lady from the scary monster - or from the big fire the monster made. So he said he would find it one day and he would kill it, but he promised the pretty lady he would look after their children, so he took Sammy and Dean and ran from the awesome house that burned all up with the pretty lady and the monster inside -"_

"That's sad," said in a small snuffly voice. "Poor lady - did Sammy and Dean love her as much as she loved them?"

"They did Sammy, I know they did."

"That's good then..." Sadly.

"But the hero saved Sammy and Dean and he traveled around the country and saved other pretty ladies and their _Sammys and Deans from bad monsters who would eat them up -"_

"How come no one could save the lady and her hero and her Sammy and Dean from the monster that came and got her _?"_

"I dunno, Sammy...sometimes...sometimes for a story to begin, bad things happen _, you know? So that heroes can be made, sometimes beautiful things must be lost - it's just the way stories go."_

"I'm glad for the stories - but...I wish bad things didn't happen, Dean." The little boy shuffled closer for comfort and warmth.

"I know, Sammy - " Dean said tightly, hugging the little body close as if to keep all the bad things away."I know..."

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **4:01PM**

It had been a long tale, but a good one, filled with adventures, mayhem, secrets, ghosts, demons, love and family - and Twig found himself so wrapped in the magic of it he had to truly fight to concentrate on the road and keep the old girl's wheels to the pavement. The story that Dean spun seemed too fantastic, too out of this world - but the edge of truth, the personal tone to it all made Birch wonder, made him question everything that he had known for the last seventy-eight years he had breathed upon the Earth. Tomkins was one thing, that was enough of a ground-shaker there - but this...this changed his whole concept of the reality he had lived in. In some ways, for the better, but in many other ways...well, he'd need some time to process that.

Not that he didn't have anything _but_ time on his hands.

They had made good strides while on the road, further along than Birch had calculated for. They were twenty minutes out from Corydon (their original destination, ironically) and his friend had just reached the part where the elder brother (who had sold his soul to a demon to bring his younger brother Sam, back to life, erasing his tragic death at the hands of one he had called a friend) was getting ready to face off with the Hounds of Hell, their demonic adversary nowhere to be found and the clock chiming his final minutes on earth. Twig could feel his heartbreak as Dean told of the young man trying to bolster his devastated younger brother, the elders remorse at leaving him behind, knowing the pain and anger that would be left in his wake - as the elder brother (Dean) had felt that same himself, a year ago to that day. He was just getting to where the Dean was laying down lines of this weird hoodoo mix called goofer dust in the doorway, trying to stave off the inevitable - when the Dean of now broke off, his eyes becoming more distant if possible, his tone taking on a hollowed echo, voice almost haunted as he stiffened in the passenger seat.

"Dean?"

"You'll see her - down the road. She'll come sleek and fast like black lightning -"

"Dean - what are you -"

"She'll purr like a panther as she flies over the black-top. Behind her wheel is a tall man, face determined, set solely on one purpose - the two as one as they hunt their prey."

"Dean -"

"Keep driving. You'll see what I mean - I can't let him...I can't let him see me. I can't let him hear me - he'll know somehow..."

Dean clammed up and seemed to... _melt_...into his seat, his eyes wide and panicked when Birch tried to coax him into talking. They hadn't seen another soul on this road for quite a few minutes. It was hardly more than a service road, really. Birch used it for cut-throughs all the time, but unless you knew about it (unless you were a local) there would be no reason for you to be on this route.

He was in for a surprise though.

Just over the next rise he heard the groaning purr of a powerful engine, a classic car from the sounds of it. He heard her before he saw her, but when he did finally see the vehicle, it caught his breath in his throat. It was like she had driven straight out of Dean's story - all sleek, black lines on a powerful frame, her ancient, proud body hugging the curves of the road as if she owned it, her presence startling, even a little menacing in the late afternoon sunlight. This was a car made of and for nighttime and shadows - not for rush hour and bumper to bumper traffic jams.

His old truck seemed to shrink from the newcomer as it got closer, the man behind the wheel of the car tall, very tall indeed ('giant' was the first thought that popped into Birch's head) and he watched with wonder as the tall man glanced at him and his vehicle, those eyes startlingly familiar in an unfamiliar face, as he was scanned then dismissed from thought, man and machine gone just as quickly as they had come. He shivered as they disappeared over the next rise, the engine heard long after they were gone, the sudden silence left behind like a dash of cold water to the face. The feeling of being scrutinized, searched - then openly willed out of existence was...well, he hadn't felt anything like that since 'Nam, that was for sure.

"That was..." Twig finally said, his voice strangled at the surreal quality the last two minutes had taken on. "That was -"

"Sam." Dean sighed, body uncoiling from the passenger door. "That was Sam."

"Wait - Sam, your -"

"My brother, yes," was the simple reply.

"Well, should we - I mean -"

" _No_!" Dean barked. Then softer, his voice heavy with regret and apology. "No - just...just keep going, Twig. Sam has to go his way...and I -"

He shrugged, eyes still hollow and far away, his lips twisted in a sad grimace, a plea for forgiveness and pain all in one.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry, Twig - just...just drive, okay? There's..there is a convenience store up ahead. Just past Corydon - remember? Where we got gas and coffee when we started this adventure. Last round's on me - alright?"

"But until then will you...will you finish the story?" Twig asked, hating himself for asking - but needing to know that he could keep Dean, just for a little while longer.

"Until we come to the end, sure, Twig - I'll finish. But - and this sounds crazy, I know - I don't think this story has an end. Not yet, anyway." Dean shrugged, the ache falling away from his face as he twisted to look at his friend, a smile that never quite reached his eyes flickering over his lips, chasing away the look of sadness. His brief smile flashed understanding - and gratitude for the same as he relaxed back into the worn seat, duffle shifting between his feet. And if Twig wasn't mistaken, the same duffle that had been carried through this very same story Dean was telling, all these long years into now.

"No good story does," Twig answered enigmatically, awe coloring his voice before he settled back into his own seat, falling back into the fantastic world of supernatural and sacrifice as Dean took back up the threads where they left off: the clock chiming the Hellhounds for their prey, as the brothers faced their adversary (the demon known as Lilith), hidden in plain sight.

The end was near.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _Some of the biggest sacrifices are comprised of the smallest, most simplest of things. Love, hope, family - all small on the grand scale, really. But huge when it comes to the impact they have on an ordinary person (and some not so ordinary) and the paths it will take them on._

But some of the smaller sacrifices, the ones you aren't even aware of making - can become big in retrospect. Walking away, leaving someone behind, saying 'enough', saying I'm sorry, or not saying anything at all - can lead to much bigger things.

But what is sacrifice? Giving up? Giving in? Or giving way?

Maybe none of these things.

Maybe all of them.

It is never left up to the person that everything is sacrificed for. It is never left up to the person who does the sacrificing. It is left up to those left over, to those who stand on the outside, looking in.

Like with a good story (or even a bad one) - it is never the narrator who decides, but the listener.

What is truth and what is a good story. What is sacrifice and what is inevitable.

And if there is even a difference.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **7:22PM**

"I'm tellin' ya Bobby, he's not even here anymore."

"Sam - just hang tight, okay? I'll be there in the next hour - we'll figure it out together. Just...just wait for me? You idjit? No sense tearin' around unknown territory without your bearings. All that'll do is get Dean lost to us that much quicker - and you too exhausted to work that computer mojo you got goin' on over there."

"I know...I know - I just...I feel like I just missed him somehow. That I had him _this close_ and...and -"

"I know, boy - I know it's tough. But this is Dean, right? No one knows him like you do."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, tongue tinged with bitterness. "No one knows him like I do."

' _And I feel like I don't know him at all anymore._ '

"I'll wait - but I'll keep throwing out the net. Can't hurt."

"No, no it can't - look Sam, I'm hittin' a tunnel - I'll call you when I'm close, then we'll go from there, okay?"

"Okay - thanks, Bobby. For everything."

"No thanks needed," was the gruff reply. "Someone's gotta look out for you boys."

The call might have been over, but it didn't stop Sam from pacing. Pacing and dialing Dean's phone endlessly while the computer tried to track the location of the GPS signal on his cellphone.

Which did absolutely no good if the damned phone was shut off.

"Dammit!"

He checked the urge to throw his cellphone at the wall, settling for tossing it on 'Dean's' bed, while he dropped on the other, wishing he could just crawl under the covers and make the world fade away until his brother came back to haul him once more into the land of the living. Or the land of the undead, take your pick.

He had been in the sub-city of Bellevue barely an hour and he already knew two things. Dean had been here hours ago and he was already gone - once again, hours ago by his estimation. Otherwise his brother would be knocking on his door, ready to take a few taps to Sam's face to make his point about how pissed he was at him. Which hadn't happened - and in all likelihood, wouldn't happen. The town just felt...Deanless - the trail for his brother barely led here and here was where it seemed to end.

On his way in, he had called the clerk's office at the Hall of Records, to find that Dean Forrester had already called and gotten information on one Russell Tomkins, deceased. After assuring Micah and Sydney that he was just double checking his employee's work - good job on them - he hung up, resisting the urge to chuckle at finally getting to call his brother his subordinate, something Dean would have loathed, but Sam would have guffawed over.

If he had been in the mood to laugh.

He had all the information on the Tomkin house pulled up in the computer within mere minutes of getting his hotel room. How many deaths in the house, the curious fact that those deaths were only residents and owners - and the handful of accidents, all construction workers there to fix up the property. All these accidents and deaths occurred in one area, too, so it was dollars to donuts that Dean had figured it out and had torched whatever he had found in the attic that had made the poltergeist (a nasty customer by all accounts) manifest and start throwing people, furniture and small pets around. There were only a few ways to take care of a 'geist and torching the possession tying them here was just step one - for step two you needed magick, a cleansing ritual to be precise - and he figured Dean had known that and taken the necessary route to get it done.

The lovely 'city' of Bellevue only boasted one occult shop - and while the clerk confirmed the items bought, he gave the very disappointing answer that Dean himself didn't buy them - nor had anyone matching his description. An old man had bought them, had a list and everything - but he was the only customer that day that had bought those items specifically. And why yes, they were open late - til nine, actually. So this left Sam with a game-plan and an hour to kill until Bobby hit town.

First stop the occult shop, next stop, Tomkin's former residence.

He double-checked that the laptop hadn't found anything (of course not - that would make things simple) and shut it down, gather his cellphone and the Impala's keys on his way out the door. For his first step, things were pretty easy, the shop being only three blocks away - and though it was not the best neighborhood in the world, it wasn't as bad as some that Sam Winchester had called home. He set off on foot, noting the fading daylight as he made his way along, ignoring the rumbling in his belly as he passed a Chinese eatery advertising 'Fresh Hot Eggrolls' and waited for the light at the crosswalk, the crumbling letters announcing Bellevue's Magic Emporium affixed firmly above the shop's door, right at the corner of Main and Castle streets.

Two seconds in he knew he had hit the jackpot, even as it only disheartened him further. The shop owner still had the list (Dean's blocky, painfully neat print practically jumping off the page) and though he stated that an old man had bought the items, it had been just about as they had opened, around 12 noon. So Sam knew Dean had most likely paid someone to buy the herbs and clothe for him, just so he wouldn't have to show his face - but still...the list in his hand showed that Dean had been there, at least in spirit, mind focused on the job - on getting the job done and moving on.

As Sam walked back (once again, forcing his stomach to ignore the smell of hot pork, fried rice and sweet oil from the eatery) he worried on the problem of Dean, the job and on whether the job was done. A 'geist was easily a two man job, no one man could take on a poltergeist of this caliber of nastiness and not come away unscathed. So as he walked back to the car he called the nearest hospital and the nearest police station, only for any further hope to be shot out of the sky as Dean's description didn't match anyone admitted or arrested within the last twenty four to forty eight hours. Not that he hoped Dean was in a jail cell or hospital bed, but it would make finding him a hell of a lot easier.

All that was left was the Tomkin house - and if that was a bust, he was once again at loose ends. No leads, no hope of any leads and dead in the water before he even started.

Not that he had much hope to begin with, but - he had held some.

So his heart was already heavy when he got into the Impala, pointing her towards the suburbs and Tomkins house. He already knew that when he got there that either Dean was dead on the floor of the attic (or heading that way) or the job was done and he had blown town hours ago. There was never any middle ground with Dean, always one or the other - dead or gone, gone or dead.

Ten minutes later he was circling the block, driving past the Tomkins house with a big 'For Sale' sign leaning forlornly on the front lawn, the windows empty and dark. He knew parking there would probably be a big neon sign for anyone driving past - kind of a 'Hello, I'm breaking in!' neon sign that he just didn't need, so he took the classic muscle car over to the next block, almost sighing in relief when he found a park sign at the next corner. She'd still stand out like a sore thumb, but not half as bad as if he parked her smack-dab in the middle of a thriving neighborhood, everyone just sitting down to dinner, wondering what the fucking hell a Chevy Impala was doing in front of an abandoned house.

He trundled the old girl to the parking area, backing her into a space in front of a shitty playground, the weathered and disused swings swaying in the breeze that had kicked up fifteen minutes ago, the whole area looking frayed and haunted in the dimming light. Sam suppressed a shiver as he clambered out of the car, nimbly stepping around an ancient looking splash of vomit near the Impala's rear door, moue of distaste pulling his mouth into a frown as he grabbed his salt, the EMF meter and Dean's spare Colt 1911 with a handful of iron rounds. Even if the 'geist was taken care of, it never hurt to take precautions. He grabbed his medical kit after a seconds thought, hoping that he wouldn't find his brother dead or dying in the house, but wanting to be prepared for anything.

For some reason, he glanced back at the vomit, then the swing-set in all it's tattered glory and felt another shiver, similar to the one he had felt while driving earlier in the afternoon. The service road he had taken had been pretty free of traffic, but at one point he had bypassed an old Chevy truck, the cherry red of the vehicle long faded to a washed out Pepto-Bismol pink - and he had felt Dean around somewhere, watching him, hiding from him - but it had turned out to be an old man trundling by in his ancient and crusty truck, returning his stare with a look of bewilderment before he topped the next rise, disappearing as fast as he had come. This feeling was close - like if he turned quickly enough, he just might see his brother, his mouth filled with endless snark and soft cajoling.

 _Hop to it Samantha, we haven't got all day..._

Sam gasped, spinning quickly to see if he could find the source of that voice - so sure was he that it was real, that Dean was standing just behind him. All he got in return for his hesitant call was the breeze tossing the treetops, creaking the swings in the miserable excuse for a playground. Dean wasn't here - hadn't ever been in this parking lot he was sure. His mind was playing tricks on him. He wondered briefly if that was the odd side effect of drinking demon's blood, then dismissed it, uneasy at the idea that such a thing could have side effects - because side effects meant other unpleasant things. Like addiction. And there was no way he -

Sam shook it off, pissed that he was wasting time piddling around in a parking lot while he could be finding his brother (slim as that hope was) where he was last supposed to be, and took off towards the Tomkin's house (listed on the books as Bernstile Manor) his hope curdling in the pit of his stomach with each step he took.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _"You're crazy, you know that?"_

"Awww, Sammy - it was just a little love-tap. You got the damned thing didn't you?"

"Dean -" Exasperated. "It tossed you down a flight of stairs...a flight of STAIRS _\- when are you gonna -"_

"Didn't hurt nothin', did it? You're always the one saying the knocks to the head can't be doing much damage. Ain't much up there, right?" Said with that sharpness to his tone, his meaning a two-edged sword that could cut and skewer with a flippant wave of the hand. "So - no harm done."

"Yeah...yeah, Dean - no harm done." More of a sigh than an acknowledgement to his words.

"That's my boy." A clap of a warm, calloused palm to his shoulder. "What say we get some lunch? I'm starvin'!"

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **7:52PM**

Getting into the Tomkin's house had been a breeze. Dean hadn't bothered to relock it on his way out - so Sam had no problems just opening the door and strolling right in.

So that was one question down.

He had walked the house, wishing he had thought to bring his flashlight, as he strolled through the empty, dusty rooms, discarded furniture rising like ghosts through the gloom, causing him to sidestep quickly more than once. He took note of the holes to the west and south of the house, nodding to himself as he made his way to where the drop-stairs for the attic were located, curious to find the stairs still in plain sight. Dean must have left in a hurry - or left hurt if the few smeared blotches of darkness against the wall were any indication.

That is - if he had left at all.

Sam had suppressed a shiver and climbed the rickety excuse for a ladder into the attic, the darkness falling around him like a warm blanket, leaving him scrabbling for a light-switch. It took a few seconds of feeling along the walls, but he finally found it, praying the power was still on. It was - for all of two seconds - but it gave him enough time to snatch up the Mag-Lite at his feet, while he blinked through the after-glare the bright flash had left behind, mouth quirked in amusement that there was a flashlight right the fuck there for him to grab.

So it was his day, even if it so wasn't.

It was almost as if Dean knew he was coming and had left little clues behind so that Sam could find them. The thought sobered Sam quickly - as he knew Dean had done anything but. This level of sloppiness from his brother actually worried him now that he had a moment to think about it. Dean wasn't sloppy and he generally picked up after himself while on the job - which meant he had been seriously hurt or distracted.

He shone the beam around the attic, taking note of the havoc that had been wreaked in the small space. It was a massive junk-pile (enough to leave Sam twitching at the thought of spiders everywhere) but certain portions of the junk looked seriously disturbed. As he swept the beam to his left he noticed a huge (though blurry) man-shaped dent in the piles of discarded lamps, papers and books - though oddly, the dent looked smaller than it should have if Dean had landed there. He quickly realized that Dean, indeed, was long gone - and while that depressed him, it also gave him hope. Dean had gone up against a 'geist - by himself - and had limped away under his own power. That right there...that was impressive - and Sam felt a surge of little brother triumph at the thought.

He walked the tiny space quickly, tall frame bent at an awkward angle as he took in the metal pail with the ashy remains of what looked to be a book and the swath of disturbed dusty and debris on the other side of the drop-stairs - most likely where Dean was flung next after he set a match to Tomkin's book. There were a couple of droplets of blood smeared here and there - but nothing really noticeable (or majorly life threatening) so with a heavy heart, Sam climbed back down, automatically taking out his handkerchief to wipe down the smears of grime and blood on the wall near the hallway, erasing what evidence he could of his brother's presence.

He closed up the drop-stairs, tucking the string in the light fixture nearby for appearance's sake and trained the flashlight's beam at his feet as he walked, hoping that no one was looking too hard at the windows as he passed them - sudden paranoia gripping him as he made for the back door. He angled to cut through the living room to save on time, clicking off the Mag-Lite as he half-walked, half-ran through the house, angry that Dean wasn't here, but relieved that Dean wasn't here all at once. He was three quarters of the way through the parlor area when he tripped, pinwheeling his arms to catch himself as something heavy, yet light-sounding slid across the gritty hardwood floor, stopping with a thump against the far wall.

"The fuck -" Sam whispered, crouching down and flicking the flashlight on for a mere second to see what his foot had hit.

It looked like...it looked like -

"No." He wasn't sure if he had actually said (squeaked) the word out loud, or if he had only thought it - but the way his mind froze afterwards, leaving him gawping at the object a few feet to his right. Well - one could hardly blame him. It showed that Dean had been here and left in one piece alright, but..it also told him that his brother was not coming back, either.

"God, Dean, _why_?"

But there was no one there, real or imagined, to answer him.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _He wasn't fond of woods, never really had been. Too many Dad-enforced hikes, drills and survival tests had happened in woods just like these for him to ever feel completely happy when all he saw when he looked around was trees, trees and more trees._

His only comfort at this moment was the fact that Dean hated forests more than he did - and he had thrived under Dad's strict rules and militia-like training. Well, if you call growing up to be the perfect foot soldier and cannon fodder with a lucky streak thriving. But he shouldn't take it out on him - it wasn't Dean's fault that they were mere days away from Jessica's funeral, miles into deep woods with no communication lines to the outside - and no Dad around to explain himself. Explain why he had them trooping through a Wendigo's hunting ground on his coordinates, supposedly to meet him right here - and him being just as scarce as Haley's missing brother.

He needed time to think, he needed time to process the anger that was slowly simmering back to the surface, all the old resentments and hurts from four years ago boiling back up as if they had never truly gone away - and really, now that he had that time to think, he guessed that they never had truly dissipated. Just gotten buried beneath pop-quizzes, mid-terms, part-time jobs and college life in all of its boring, yet hectic glory. But here he was, right back where he never wanted to be, alongside a brother he truly never expected to see again after that last exhausting, fury-fueled phone call between the two of them almost three years ago. The brother he had hung up on after calling him every low, dirty name in the book, phone tossed across the room to disintegrate into the far wall, sure that Dean would never speak to him again.

And Dean didn't, not for the longest time (especially if you factor in Dean-time). But here they were now, looking for Dad while hunting a Wendigo of all things (what a way to slide back into hunting easy) and Sam knew, just knew _that Dad wasn't here - he never was here, he had never planned on being here and while he knew this wasn't Dean's fault, he found himself gearing up to pick a fight anyway, wanting his brother to be angry too, to be pissed at being used and tossed aside like a tool that had out-lived its main purpose, but still maintained that certain slot in the bottom drawer._

But that just wasn't Dean. It never was - and maybe (just maybe) Sam resented him for that (just a bit).

But the fight never really happened. In his head, yeah - but Dean just slid in and tried to make it better, so damned Dean and Big Brother that Sam was just left tired and ragged out, too exhausted to do much other than put up a token protest at Dad's absence.

And found that Dean pretty much suspected what he did - Dad wasn't in Lost Creek. He never had been, he never would be. This was just another hunt tossed their way, another training mission, another exercise and Sam found it hard to do anything but resent the man that called himself a father, but behaved more like an absent-minded uncle that had inherited them in a will.

"Then let's get these people back to town and let's hit the road, go find dad. I mean why are we still in here? "

"This is why..." Dean hefted Dad's journal, eyes boring through Sam's own, wanting him, needing _him to understand._

He held the leather-bound tome with an absent reverence, like the volume was the next best thing to a Holy Grail and to a hunter, maybe it was. It reminded Sam alot of Dad, just in the look of it - all grizzled and worn, but holding together through years of wear and tear, insides slowly coming apart even as the seams around it held tight, refusing to give in to age, time, weather or mishandling. It saddened Sam to think that soon, his brother would be like his Dad - like Dad's book - and that he would be unlucky enough to watch it happen.

"This book." He said it almost pleadingly, eyes shining with awe." This is dad's single most valuable possession. Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here - and he's passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off - you know, saving _people, **hunting** things. The family business..."_

That phrase over time would become their code (though Sam didn't know that then) and that leather-bound, double rubber-banded tangle of fading notes, torn pages and wrinkled newspaper clippings did _become the Holy Grail, long after Dad had died - and long before Dean blazed a trail to Hell._

It had become their manual, their shared secret, their catch-all and their anchor.

It was the single most important piece of equipment they had - and Dean always made sure it was never very far from his grasp.

Until Sam stumbled over it in the dark, dust-encrusted living room of a poltergeist-that-was named Tomkins and it only meant one thing.

Dean wanted him to pick up where he left off -

But Sam wasn't so sure he could do that anymore - especially after he discovered what awaited him inside the battered cover of the Winchester's Holy Grail, the worn binding hiding one final secret and yet another heartbreak that had sealed the fates of their entire family and set them on the path to their downfall.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **5:53PM**

Saying good-bye to Twig had been hard.

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, actually - and in the Dean Winchester book of hard things, that was saying a lot.

He had ended the story with his rise from Hell and his initial meeting with the supposed 'Angel of the Lord' Castiel, his doubt seeping through his tone, even as he displayed his only scar that his body now had, the raised, angry looking hand-print on his left shoulder. Birch had been impressed - and awed - by that same scar, his tangled eyebrows creeping towards his hairline as he stared at it, his eyes asking permission as he reached out to tentatively touch one of the 'finger-marks', that permission granted with a sharp nod of Dean's head. It was funny how he didn't even feel the calloused brush of fingers against the marred flesh, almost as if the nerves there had been fried. Twig was suitably dumb-struck, which tickled Dean to no end, even as the thought entered his head that now was time to go and let this man get back to his life, free of Dean and his supernatural stories and adventures.

Birch had gotten his answers about Alistair and then some. He had told his friend what he could remember about his time in Hell (which was still hazy at best) and the shameful sin he committed of giving in (though he couldn't remember why). He told him things he would never have been able to tell his brother in a million years - though whether it was because Birch was a new friend and didn't know him very well, or the fact that in such a very short time he seemed to know and understand him better than Sam ever could, Dean had no clue. But it eased some of the weight that had been dragging behind him ever since he had crawled out of his own grave - and while that by no means made everything better, or even fixed half of what was wrong with him (much less cured what ever weakness led to his downfall with Alistair's razor in his hands), it made breathing a little easier, just to know that someone else out there now knew his secrets, knew his family - without being attached or obligated in any way. He felt kind of bad dumping his family and his past on Twig's head, but hardly got time to voice it before he was waved off with a stern look, Birch thanking him for the story and for the adventure itself.

"It has been the time of my life young man, I can't say otherwise. So don't apologize for sharing such a fascinating tale - but it'll take me awhile to decide if it is all true or not." It was said with a smiling twinkle in his faded gray eyes, corner of his mouth curled in warm humor. "I think I've had more fun with you today, than I've had in years, Dean - so...so thank you. Thank you for being my friend and thank you for sharing your coffee, gas and time with an old man."

"Maybe we can do it again, sometime," Dean had offered, fully expecting a commiserating nod and a laugh from Twig, but was surprised when the old man pinned him with a look, laughing eyes suddenly very serious indeed.

"I'll hold you to that, Winchester - I'll hold you to it."

They rode the rest of the way to the bus depot in companionable silence, having already agreed earlier when they had stopped for gas (and had that odd little encounter with the clerk there) that Twig would drop him off at the Greyhound station, (destination everywhere) and Dean laughed to himself at the irony of another Winchester taking a bus to run away from home. He sobered quickly at the idea that Sam just might look for him at one of the stopping points (if he even figured out what Dean was doing and he wouldn't put it past Sam to work that out - and damned quick, too) so he figured he'd better find his way off of the bus early, just in case.

Still, even when they were in the parking lot, the tiny depot throwing shadows over the windshield of Birch's old Chevy, they were reluctant to part ways. They both just sat silently, soaking up the warmth of the autumn sun's rays as they slanted through the windows, neither wanting to say anything to break the quiet, but both knowing they couldn't sit there forever.

"Well," Twig coughed, figuring he'd better be the first to break the ice, (figuratively speaking). "You got everything there, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice as faded as old velvet as he looked at and through the dingy brick building in front of them. He didn't even bother to look through his duffle, secure in what he held in there - his only worry about its contents was getting it through security. "Missing a Mag-Lite, but I'll pick up another if I really need it."

"Sorry about that -"

"No need," Dean returned, smiling softly in Birch's direction. "We both got out in one piece - that's what counts."

"If you say so, young man."

They sat for another few minutes, the silence rushing back in to fill all the empty places in the old truck, the only sound being the tick of her engine as she cooled, the outside world as quiet as the Chevy's cab. They both geared up to speak and halted, realizing that once they said their goodbyes, it would be a good while (if ever) before they saw each other again.

"D'ya have enough money -"

"Yeah, Twig...got a credit card that outta cover everything I need."

"Okay."

After another beat, Twig cleared his throat, turning in his seat to face Dean, willing the young man to look back at him.

"Dean," he hesitated, half-pleased when Dean swiveled in his own seat, face sober and mildly sad before he was just Dean again, the rather odd, but nice guy that Birch had grown quite fond of in a very short period of time. "I hate to ask, but since you said you were headed nowhere in particular when we started this journey, I wonder if you could do me a favor - that is...if you are still headed nowhere in particular."

Dean grinned, gleeful sarcasm dancing at the corners of his mouth as he gave one long, slow blink in Birch's direction.

"You planned this, didn't ya', old man - c'mon, admit it!" He laughed as Birch sputtered a negative, knowing Dean was funnin' him, but still trying to lodge a token protest at the accusation.

"I did no such thing, Dean Winchester - you know what, forget it -"

"Aww, Twig, I'm just messing around," Dean chuckled. "C'mon, what is it? I'll do 'bout damn near anything you ask."

' _Except go back to my brother, tail tucked between my legs._ '

His smile almost faltered at the thought, but he managed to keep it glued in place, curiosity urging him to lean in closer to Birch, like the old man had a secret to share. Birch raised an eyebrow at him, but grinned back, feeling that what he was doing was right, that Dean would understand and appreciate what was asked of him.

"Well...only if you're sure."

"Twiiiggg -"

"Alright, alright. I was going to run an errand in Corydon today, but I was thinking, maybe you could help an old man out and save him the trouble of messing about with the damned post office and all the fun I would have there. I was wondering, if maybe, you wouldn't mind delivering something for me - or in this case, not so much delivering, as picking something up."

Ohh, this was interesting.

"I'm all ears, Twig - just say the word and I'm there. What is it you need picked up?"

Birch gave a sunny laugh, that twinkle in his eye burning fierce and bright. "This m'boy - you are gonna _love_! How'd'ya feel about making a quick trip just outside Flagstaff, Arizona?"

Dean almost balked, the city of Flagstaff (and the surrounding area) one place that he always avoided - but this was for Birch, not him, and if the old man needed him to fetch something there, he'd be more than happy to go with it, bad memories or no.

"Sure, Birch, why not - better than just nowhere."

Birch grinned that half-crazy, sweet old man grin again and leaned in near Dean's space, voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper, even if it was only the two of them in an ancient, beat-to shit truck in the middle of a Greyhound parking lot. When he filled Dean in on what he was going to be picking up - and where he was to drop it off, Dean found himself laughing. It was almost too perfect. This whole day had been a blessing just dropped in his lap, his chance meeting with Birch seeming more and more to be the destiny he scoffed at then actual chance.

Birch laughed with him, his grin so wide, Dean was afraid his head would fall off.

"You'd be doing me a huge favor there, Dean - I'd owe ya big if you took care of all that for me. Saves me a trip to the post office, a money order for gas, shoot - all of that mess. Got the papers right here, too. They were all ready to be mailed, but..." Twig shrugged, smile still stretching his mouth and making him look years younger.

"I'd be more than happy to take those off your hands, Birch," Dean chuckled, having to rein in the urge to roll down the window and shout 'Oh thank _fuck_!' at the clear blue sky above them. "Only one question."

"What's that?"

"You've trusted me all throughout this crazy day - I still don't understand it, though I thank you it. But this? This is a little bigger than palling around with some punk-drifter heading to take out a poltergeist. This is...this is _way_ bigger - I have no idea why you'd trust me with this, but...well, there's no way to thank you properly for that trust."

" _You_ thank _me_?" Birch laughed again, patting the truck's dash in a fond, almost reflective gesture. "Dean - you'd be saving me one hell of a headache, here. As much as I love my eldest nephew, I don't trust his brat son as far as I can chuck him. I'd be honored if you'd take care of this for me. _Trust_? _Shit_ \- I've known you for only nine, ten hours tops - and I trust you over that spoiled sonuvabitch in a heartbeat! Thank you for this - truly. It really makes this day - fantastic as it was, complete for me."

Dean leaned back in his seat, canted near the door as Birch twisted to pop open the glove-box, the flap falling open with a rusty creak as he hauled himself back upright, waving one gnarled hand in Dean's general direction.

"Go on, then. It's sitting right on top, everything you need to hit the road with."

Dean reached in and snagged the manila envelope sitting neatly atop the other scattering of paperwork in the glove-box, eyebrows jumping at the weight of the tiny package. "There isn't a money order in here, right? Cause I'd have to give it back and I know what a pain they can be to reverse."

"Nope - that's why I was headed to the main post office in Corydon. It's smaller than most main offices like that, but they have the ability to do money orders and they ship fast for lesser rates than the office near me." The old man shrugged, smile never wavering. "But the office I go to has a notary. Already got all that mess done, just needs a signature - go on, now..."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, hesitating only a moment before he opened the sealed envelope, pulling out the registration papers in one smooth pull, placing them on top of the stiff manila as he reached for the pen in his jacket.

"Are you sure, Twig - cause once I sign this -"

"I'm sure, son, now quit your lolly-gagging, a bus is waitin' for ya."

Dean signed on the dotted line with a flourish, clicking the pen closed and putting it away before stuffing the papers back into the envelope and closing the flap, turning it over carefully in his hands before bending to grab his duffle.

"Thanks Twig...for everything. This day started out so bad, I -" Dean swallowed hard, shaking his head as though to rid himself of what had happened less than fifteen hours ago. "Thanks..."

For what may have been the last time, he opened up the passenger door and hauled himself out, the solid ground beneath his feet almost startling as it always was after long stretches in a vehicle. He heard a creak as Birch got out on the other side, the old man approaching him in an easy lope, hand stuck out to give their final shake goodbye.

Dean blinked at him, green eyes intense, almost as if he was mapping Birch's face, taking every little detail and hard-wiring them into his memory. He dropped his duffle to take the offered hand, his shake firm, yet gentle - hoping that it conveyed everything he was feeling at that moment, as he didn't think words were adequate to express his gratitude, happiness and genuine kinship he felt Birch 'Twig' Collins.

"Aww, hell with it," Birch gritted, hauling him in for a one armed hug. "Good to meet you, Dean - it's been, well...it's been an adventure!"

Dean surprised himself by allowing Birch not only to tug him into the embrace, but returning it as fierce as he got it.

"I know how much you love those," he rasped, fighting the crazy urge to laugh and bawl like a girl all at once. "It's been great, Twig - thank you...thank you for _everything_. Do this again, sometime?"

Birch pulled away, slapping him on his uninjured shoulder before giving it a tight squeeze and shake, releasing his other hand from his warm, friendly grip as he stepped back, his own smile sad and yet happy all at the same time.

"I'm counting on it. Phone number's in there - address to if you are ever inclined to write me." The hint was mild, but Dean took it for what it was and felt warmed all over again.

"I guess I'll have to call and send Christmas cards then," he said somberly, bending to grab his duffle off the broken concrete. "Though I don't know where I'll end up at - and they might not be in a name you recognize."

"Wellah," Birch coughed. "To let you know - where you'll be dropping that machine off at, my other nephew, Thomas - he's always got work. Maybe you'll find a place there?"

Dean mulled it over, liking the idea the more he thought on it. Sam would never look for him in such a remote place - and if there was someone there willing to give him a hand, help him make his way - he just might allow himself to take that hand up, much as it went against his nature. He was turning over a new leaf after all.

"I just might, Twig - thanks."

"Guess I'll give Thomas a call...let him know to expect you."

"What will you tell him."

"Ohhh, that I got a close friend delivering the package instead. Thomas is a good man - he'll see to it that you find a home there. Your own little niche if you will."

"Guess I look forward to that then..." Dean replied softly, the words 'fate' and 'not a coincidence' floating through his thoughts once more. "Guess I do. Well - til we meet again, Collins."

"And we will, Winchester - you can count on it," Birch answered, giving his shoulder one final squeeze before ambling back to the driver's side of his truck.

Dean watched him hop into the Chevy and start her up, giving one final wave and honk as Birch pulled away. He kept watching until Birch's taillights disappeared around the next corner, a pressure under his ribs aching him in a funny way, but not necessarily a bad way as he whispered goodbye to his new friend and ally.

Dean glanced at the Greyhound station and then at his duffle, doubt twisting his mouth into a frown as he contemplated how he'd get around security. He hefted the envelope and considered it as well, before dismissing the bluff that formed in his mind, knowing that he'd never get away with it, even at his bullshit best. Transportation venues were too paranoid nowadays. Not that this was a _bad_ thing, just inconvenient if you wanted to get around quickly, guns on your person.

So...the Winchester way it was then.

He gave one last glance around, making sure he wasn't being watched as he made his way out of the station's parking lot and two blocks over to where someone had carelessly left their keys in their brand new Cadillac. Bad for them...but good for him as he pulled smoothly away like he owned the vehicle, duffle tossed in the passenger foot-well, envelope with the registration papers tucked into the opening at the top of the green canvas carryall.

Sometimes the Winchester way really was the best way - and days like this, _luck_ like this - only proved that point.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
